


excerpt - Beneath the Silver Stars

by DFRetha (ichaelis)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Celtic-inspired fantasy, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Fantasy, Gaelic-inspired language, excerpt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:07:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29526846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ichaelis/pseuds/DFRetha
Summary: A centuries-old conflict rages between the beautiful, immortal Daoine Síth of Tir na nÓg, and the ambitious, fearsome humans of Albion over the fate of the continent of Aoi‘Si. But when a new enemy emerges that threatens both nations, a peace treaty is struck, and forged in the marriage of the Fae Prince, Iorweth mac Torin, and the cousin of Albion's new ruler, Lady Rowan Yohe..After months of living in the capital, Dulcineya, Rowan starts to wonder if she will ever truly belong in the magical world of the Fae. Sensing her sorrow, Iorweth takes her someplace special, to brighten her spirits and, hopefully, find his way into her heart..excerpt from my in-progress novel, Hearts of Stone.
Relationships: Iorweth mac Torin x Rowan Yohe, Original Female Character/Original Male Character





	excerpt - Beneath the Silver Stars

Rowan soon learned that in Dulcineya, it was never silent. Back home in Arden, everyone operated on schedule, a schedule that had manifested organically since the Great War, when humans settled south of the River Yarrow for the first time.

Every morning, by the first rays of sunlight, the craftsmen lit their forges, the farmers who lived outside the walls wandered into their fields, followed by cattle or flocks of sheep, the fishermen cast their cages, lines and nets into the lakes, rivers and farther out to sea, the merchants opened shop or erected stalls in the market squares, and the high lords woke in their keeps.

The cities clamoured from sunrise to sunset. As evening loomed, inns and taverns started to swell with hungry patrons. The lengthening twilight would fill with drunken laughter, jaunty music, and the thick, rich smells of smoky cook fires.

Once stars emerged in earnest, the streets would start to empty. The forges were extinguished, the farmers came in from their fields, the fishing lines and nets were hauled in, the merchants closed shop. Oft times, inns thrummed with energy well into the night, though it was a faded energy. The streets themselves were empty, silent and still, but for the cutthroats, thieves and cheap whores, and city watchmen on patrol.

But in Dulcineya, the coming of night seemed to have little effect on the city, other than that lights shone suddenly from hundreds of fireflies flitting in the bushes, from braziers filled with burning coals, from hanging lamps and ironworks sconces, and even from beneath the lakes, rivers and streams themselves, ethereal hues of blue, green and purple.

From the balcony outside her private rooms, Rowan looked out over the city, entranced by the new sights, sounds and smells blooming in the night. The market squares she’d visited earlier emptied, but new ones flourished in their places. Rowan watched as Fae strolled over the floating stone walkways spanning the lengths of rivers and streams in parties of two or three or twenty. She watched children crowd round stages while performers re-enacted tales of the Heroes of Old, or puppeteers made merry with exquisitely painted puppets, making them come to life with a faint twist of their wrists. And everywhere, Fae men and Fae women were eating plates of fresh fruits, lean meats and nuts, sipping wine from silver cups or blowing fragrant smoke from reed-thin pipes. 

There was less noise too, none of the blatant hawking of wares, or the clash of forging steel, or the bawdy music of colourful minstrels playing on bagpipes, drums, hurdy-gurdys and lutes, mixing into a chaotic tumult.

Instead, over the hush of running water, and birds and insects, the air filled with bells, the calming murmur of harps, the trilling voices of flutes. The music seemed to float from every house, every plaza, every terrace; the exact same song. And entirely in time and tune. It was like the earth itself was singing. That was impossible, though, Rowan thought. _Isn’t it?_

 _Not here_ , the voice of reason replied. _Nothing’s impossible. There is magic here. In every branch of every tree, every leaf and petal, every stone. There is magic in the earth and water and flowing in every living thing. Except in you, foolish mortal._

Rowan held her hands out, palms turned up. _Except in me . . ._

Among humans, she’d never noticed her lack of magical talent. Once, perhaps, she might’ve thought it something special, to channel energy into spells and conjure fireballs or ice, or heal injuries with a touch and imbue steel with extra strength or less weight. But few humans were born magic. Those that were were oft recruited to serve the Church, for magic was a blessing from God. So mages were rarely seen, and even less often spoken to. And besides, Rowan was far more troubled by the fact that old Ser Varyn had handed her brothers practice swords and taught them how to ride well before her, even though she was older than them.

Here, in Tír na nÓg, Fae women could fight and rule as easily as Fae men. In that, she was her husband’s equal. Yet, never had she felt so . . . other. She felt it every time someone set their cat-like eyes on her, the fact that she wasn’t like them. They had tried, Brenna and Erie and Etain, and Iorweth’s mother, Oriana. And King Torin treated her kindly. But to others, she was something to be pitied. A fragile creature. Her life was a blink of the eye. She hadn’t even magic in her little human veins. And without it, she could not see the world for its true beauty. Could not hear its song. She was blind. Deaf.

She wasn’t Iorweth’s wife; she was his pet – that’s what everyone thought.

Hot tears burned the backs of Rowan’s eyes painfully. She missed Mother and Father. She missed Kier and Ronan, and even Teagan, though he irritated her more oft than not. She missed the castle staff: the cook, her handmaidens, Arlana and Gwyn, the kennel master and his hounds, Brian the craftsman, her father’s steward, Wyman, her old wet-nurse, Betha, Ser Varyn, and his nephew’s son, Gregory, who Rowan was certain was in love with her, though he was only six. More than them, however, she missed Rhian. She never should’ve come here.

A knock interrupted her thoughts. “Come in,” she called, turning from the view, and pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger.

“Lady Rowan,” Iorweth said, bowing his head politely. It was a formal welcome. “Forgive my tardiness. There were important matters that needed tending to.”

He’d offered her the same, vague explanation for several nights now. She knew something was wrong, but Iorweth would not tell her.

Sometimes, Rowan would sit in on her father’s private councils. Even if she could not rule herself, he’d said, a high lady sometimes had to run the estate when her husband was elsewhere engaged. She had to be fluent in her letters, numbers, and heraldry of Houses Great or Small, and be privy to whatever issue that may interfere with keeping the King’s peace.

Iorweth must’ve known that when he proposed their marriage to Duke Yohe, but he shared nothing with her. Perhaps he only meant to keep the truth from her so not to cause her concern. Or perhaps he still felt that he could not trust her.

It was a warm enough evening, so they took their late supper on the limestone terrace, beneath the silver stars. They started with a broth of mushrooms and scallions sliced thin, and crusty bread with butter. Lux poured two cups of honeyed wine and handed the first one to his lord. Iorweth took it without even thinking. His thoughts were elsewhere entirely, his normally bright eyes clouded over, his neat, slender brows pinched.

She’d heard the rumours. Servants liked to whisper. And they whispered of trouble in the West, of the Black Ones returning, someone named Shadowhand marching south, and a plague they called Corruption emerging in small towns and isolated villages.

But she thought better than to ask. He would have to know who had told her such things, and Rowan wasn’t sure that she was capable of lying to him. Besides, she had only a few friends in Dulcineya. She needn’t separate herself even further by causing trouble for the loose-lipped staff.

She tried a more subtle tactic and covered his hand with her own. His skin was startlingly cold. “Is something wrong?”

“Hm?” Iorweth blinked several times, clearing the clouds from his eyes. He smiled, but the heavy lines round his mouth confessed that it was forced. “No. Nothing’s wrong, _mae mhil_.” Then, truly noticing her for the first time, his smile turned sincere. He held the hand she’d laid over his, threading his fingers through hers. “You look lovely this evening. The colour suits you.”

His cat-like eyes took her in head-to-toe, noting the fitted gown her Fae handmaids chose for her that morning, all jade silk and mint chiffon. The billowing sleeves became fitted near her elbows, the lower, silk sleeves overlayed with twisting whorls of silver lace. The bodice was covered in similar patterns, the pale vines inset with berry-sized emeralds. A cord of braided silver cinched her slender waist. It sat low on her shoulders, revealing the brown freckles stippling her neck, shoulders and the tops of her breasts like spots on a bird’s egg.

“Thank you.” It was a feeble response, but somehow, her words felt heavy in her mouth. He was not offering her obligatory courtesies or empty praise. He meant every word.

Iorweth noticed the precariously stacked towers of books and brittle scrolls covering the carpets inside. “What’s that there?” he wondered as Lux placed a roasted black-spotted trout between them. It was stuffed with fresh herbs and lemon slices, and served on a bed of fresh greens and onions.

“I’m . . . learning the Elder Speech. That is to say that I’m trying.”

A bemused smile tugged at his lips. “ _Ags cimar a tha syn a’dol_?”

“ _Chan eel maeth_ ,” she replied slowly.

“ _Chan eil gy maeth_ ,” he corrected, not unkindly, and took a bite of the trout. “But I’d say you are doing quite well. How long have you been practicing?”

In truth, Rowan’s tutor had taught her the basics of the Elder Speech. Father thought it was a critical part of her continuing education since they lived so close to Fae lands and sometimes the Elder Folk came south to live or trade. But the Fae knew the Common Speech better than humans knew their melodious tongue and Rowan never saw the need to learn.

The chief librarian nearly burst with excitement last week when she’d requested the books, scurrying about like a coop of agitated chickens. He'd selected several books on the history of the Fae, several more on orthography, phonology, and the typology of the Elder Speech, a few classic fairy tales (“Children read those. An easy-enough place to begin, I should think,” he’d tittered.) and, rather curiously, recipe scrolls and compendiums of ancient beasts, extinct plant species, and rocks.

“I know some common phrases,” Rowan said, skewering a leaf of spinach with her fork. “And I’ve made notes on when and where I see similar words. But I’m not sure I’m learning much.”

“Perhaps I can hire a tutor?” Iorweth suggested and reached for his wine. Before she could reply, his eyes flared like emerald flames. “No. Wait. On second thought, I’ll teach you!”

Rowan swallowed. She was not so sure that that was a good idea. He was busy enough without adding language lessons to his workload. “I would hate to burden you.”

“It’s no burden,” he replied with a wave, as though he was brushing off a fly. “I would be happy to. And I’m an excellent teacher, if I may say so.”

 _He wants more time with me._ Truth be told, she would learn more with a teacher . . . And he loved her so fiercely, it seemed cruel to refuse him this simple thing.

“Okay,” Rowan decided. Excitement bubbled in her belly. “You can teach me the Elder Speech. When shall we begin?”

“Why not now?” Iorweth smiled and rose from his chair. “Officially we can start tomorrow. But there is something that I’ve been meaning to show you. I just needed to wait for the perfect timing.”

“And it will help me learn the Elder Speech?”

“Well, kind of. No . . . Not really.” He held her by the hand, leading her inside. “But I’m sure we can turn it into a learning opportunity, somehow.”

Despite herself, Rowan chuckled. “I think I’m starting to regret this already.”

He would not say where he was bringing her, only that she should change into something comfortable. So Rowan traded her silk skirts for a brown and green striped tunic, a pair of soft, woolen breeches, and calfskin riding boots. Her hair she bound into a braid, so long that it brushed the small of her back.

Iorweth waited for her in the outer ward, arms crossed as he leaned against a column of polished sandstone. Instead of his elegant, forest green doublet with golden scrollwork and delicate filigree, he wore boiled leather with iron studs and a brown jerkin. Without his silver crown, he looked the way he had looked the morning they’d met, when she’d stood in the icy rain, listening to him play his wooden flute.

“I’m ready. Will you tell me where you are taking me now?” she asked.

He pushed himself off the column with his toe. “No. That would ruin the surprise.” He held out a black velvet bag. “Put this on.”

Rowan folded her arms across her chest, frowning. “You aren’t serious, are you?”

“I’m serious.”

“I’ll trip,” she objected.

“We’re not walking,” he replied.

That was even worse. “And how am I supposed to ride with a blindfold on?”

“Simple. We’re not taking the horses,” he replied. He shook the bag slightly, encouraging her to take it.

Rowan stepped back, the realization sinking in. _The Grey Wolf_ – Iorweth meant to carry her himself. “Oh no. No. No. No. _No_! Iorweth, I’m _not_ riding barebacked through a forest in the middle of the night wearing a sack!”

Before she could make a run for the stairs, the Fae Prince caught her by the wrist and pulled her close. His other arm wrapped around her shoulders and held her tightly against him. “I won’t allow anything bad to happen to you,” he said, burying his face in her neck. “I promise.”

Most of the time Iorweth was all charming smiles, laughter, sarcasm, and wit. But then there were times when he spoke in _that_ tone, and she knew that he was not teasing any longer.

Rowan breathed in the familiar scent of cedarwood, cypress and lavender. “Okay . . .” She trusted him. Mostly.

Then came the slightly sweet malodor of magic, the tingle of the hairs on her neck rising. Rowan felt the hulking presence of the Grey Wolf beside her. Blindly, she clutched fistfuls of thick, warm fur, hoisting herself up. But she hadn’t the momentum, so she slid backwards, pulling out tufts as she fell. He whimpered high in his throat.

“Help me then!” she snapped.

Iorweth bent his long neck back. Rowan shrieked in surprise when he prodded her legs with his snout. He pressed his massive head to her hip, letting her lean on him for leverage. She clambered onto his muscled back, straddling the hard ridge of his spine, and spent some time fixing herself between two vertebrae. Finally, he snarled, and she buried her heels in his flanks. "Very well. I'm ready."

When he pushed off on his powerful legs, Rowan's stomach heaved into her throat. 

He loped over the cobblestones, easy at first, then with increasing swiftness, his paws making no noise. Rowan pressed herself low on his back. She was becoming familiar with his pacing and fell into the movement of his muscles, her hips rising and falling in rhythm with each stride. He moved so smoothly that she would have to purposely throw herself off in order to fall. Nevertheless, it made for a more comfortable ride to move with him, rather than to sit back passively.

The sack was so tightly knit, there was no reason for her to close her eyes; she could see nothing, not even moonlight, through the weave. As Iorweth ran on, she could hear the noises of the city fading - the laughter, the music, the rush of running water - replaced with birdsong and insects and the hiss of leaves moving in the wind. 

He loped passed a roaring waterfall, and Rowan felt the cool kiss of mist on her naked hands. Then they were heading upwards, and Iorweth's breathing shifted, becoming laboured. They continued to ascend for several long minutes. _Where's he taking me?_ she wondered.

After over an hour, she felt the earth level out beneath them and Iorweth slowed to a trot. He stopped, and Rowan slid from his back, her legs like seaweed. She leaned on him, stamping her feet to chase off the tingling in her numb toes. "Can I take this off now?"

Iorweth returned to his humanoid form, sending a surge of fragrant magic over her. "Not yet. But it won't be for much longer."

Rowan could feel soft soil beneath her feet. Grass brushed her knees and she smelt geraniums, lavender and lemongrass on the breeze. 

He took her by the hand, leading her higher still. The slope was not steep, though he paused to help her over several fallen logs and flat rocks that felt more like steps, and she soon tired. "Careful," he said. "There's a bit of a step there. Like that. Good. Now, keep walking straight. We're nearly there."

It was colder here, the air thinner - or perhaps she was imagining that.

Finally, he helped her sit, cross-legged on a bed of moss. Then he placed her hands on the velvet bag. "You can take it off now."

Rowan removed the blindfold. He'd brought her into the foothills of the Golden Mountains, far from Dulcineya. Forest spread beneath them, from horizon to horizon. The God's River flowed through the valley, following the natural rise and fall of the land, shining silver in the moonlight. The view itself was worth the trip.

“Look up,” Iorweth said. She looked up. And her breath caught in her throat.

Stars! The night sky was a sea of pink, purple and blue, spotted with millions of silver stars. Cleaving the heavens near in two was a cleft of billowing lilac clouds. Through it swirled black, blue and gold whorls.

"I meant to bring you here many times before now," he said. "You can't see this in the Capital, even on a clear night like tonight."

"Incredible . . . " Rowan breathed. "I love it."

He smiled. "So I had hoped."

She returned the smile. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

The blanket of moss was soft, sprouting tiny coloured flowers with pink, purple and white blossoms. He lay back, folding both hands beneath his head like a pillow. 

“Admit it,” Iorweth said, moonlight reflecting mischievously in his eyes. “All things considered, you are beginning to like me.”

She picked two of the little pink blossoms, knotted their stems together and swept the petals over his nose. "A little. Maybe. But it's a secret. I've my reputation to consider."

"Huh . . ."

She wiggled her brows conspiratorially. "As a cold, Fae-hating human, of course. I only married you because my father made me."

"Of course." He plucked the braided flowers from her fingers, rolled them between his. He winked. "Well . . . Your horrible secret is safe with me."

Then he slid them behind her ear, lightly tracing her cheek with his thumb. A flush crept over her neck and shoulders beneath his honest stare, and she settled back in the moss next to him.

“See that bright star? That’s the tip of the Great Serpent’s tail.” He traced a cluster of stars with his finger three times for her to follow. She saw the rearing serpent, its maw stretched open, tongue flicking. “We call him _en Naathair Mhòr_.”

“ _En Naathair Mhòr_ ,” Rowan repeated.

Iorweth nodded, his lips pulled back into a grin. “See? I knew we could make this a learning opportunity.”

She repeated the words a second time, feeling the way her mouth moved with each syllable. “ _En Naathair Mhòr_.”

“ _Naathair Mhòr_ was once one of the Twelve Beasts,” he explained, his voice falling into a soft whisper. “A Guardian of the Great Sovereign, Draco. He was cunning, intelligent, but proud to a fault. He thought himself more powerful than even the Sovereigns themselves, whom he'd been made to serve. ‘If they need me,’ he said willfully, ‘how strong can they be?’ To which the wise Oìr replied that he might be right.

“He offered the Great Serpent a challenge: he would fight his Sovereign, and prove which of them was more worthy of the title. If _Naathair Mhòr_ slew Draco in single combat, he would be Sovereign forevermore. If he lost, however, no longer would he serve as Guardian. Instead, he would burn in the fires of the Eighth Hell forever. Of course, _Naathair Mhòr_ ’s pride would not permit him to refuse. So the two Beasts fought. In size and strength, Draco was far superior, but _Naathair Mhòr_ was faster, striking with his terrible teeth full of venom. His skin was impenetrable too. He was made that way, for he was Draco’s protector. Even the Dragon’s fire could not melt the Great Serpent’s mighty scales. And soon Draco feared that he was set to lose.”

Rowan snuggled closer, eager to hear what happened next.

“For nigh on a century it is said they fought, shaking the heavens in their fury. Then the Dragon realized something. _Naathair Mhòr_ ’s scales were invulnerable, it’s true. But _only_ his scales.

“Draco kicked sand into _Naathair Mhòr_ ’s eyes, not to blind him – for that would’ve been cowardly – but to enrage him. _Naathair Mhòr_ responded exactly how Draco expected, rearing back, prepared to strike. Then Draco shot a ball of black fire straight into _Naathair Mhòr_ ’s open mouth. And the Great Serpent burned from within, exploding into a cloud of ash and fire.

"Now, _Naathair Mhòr_ suffers endless torment in the bowels of Hell, his spirit burning forever, and a new Great Serpent - the Good Serpent _, en Naathair_ _Mhath_ \- serves Draco in his place."

Iorweth pointed out the constellation Draco, with his wings stretched wide, and a smaller snake beside his left wingtip. 

Rowan slipped beneath his arm, laying a cheek on his shoulder. "Are there other stories?"

He tensed beneath her, startled by her sudden closeness. Then he relaxed, wrapping an arm around her, and held her close. "Many and more."

She idly traced a line of leather stitching. "I think I should like to hear them."

He kissed the top of her head lovingly, his nose buried in her copper hair. "As my lady wishes. But first, watch _Naathair Mhòr_ 's tail."

All she saw were more of the same stars. They were beautiful, to be sure, but she had been watching. "Am I supposed to be seeing something special?" 

“Keep looking . . .” He was shaking with excitement.

She waited, watching.

Eventually, there was a shot of silver beside the Great Serpent’s tail. She blinked, not sure she had really seen it. Then there was a second streak, this time near the Serpent’s tongue. And another. And another. A meteor shower . . . 

"It only happens once every half century," he explained. "I knew that tonight would be the best time to watch.”

She sighed. “It’s so beautiful . . . "

After a long moment, he said, "I'm sorry if I've been ignoring you."

"Ignoring me?" Rowan furrowed her brow. "You're busy. I know that. I've never felt neglected by you." 

"Even still . . . I'll try and be better." He moved a hand languidly along her spine. "I know that this isn't what you imagined your life would be like. I know that _I'm_ not what you imagined. To be honest, I never imagined that I would ever love a human woman either. I do though . . . I love you."

“Iorweth . . ."

He shook his head. “It’s okay. You needn’t say it in return. I just want you to be happy."

 _He really loves me . ._. Since the night of their wedding, Rowan had only ever invited Iorweth to her bed on the night of the last two full moons to try and conceive a child. And he’d left once they were finished.

Every other night they supped together, either in her rooms or in the Great Hall. He was easy to talk to, eagerly listening, never interrupting, other than to keep the conversation running with an enquiry or comment. Once there was nothing to say, they would eat in companionable silence and sit for a time afterwards. Sometimes, he’d play his flute or read while she wrote letters or sewed. Other times, he'd show her how to whittle wood.

But once the hour was late, the Prince would bid her farewell with a cool kiss on the cheek. He wanted terribly to stay with her, she knew. Occasionally, he’d trace circles over her skin, his touch electric. Or his stare would linger on her lips, contemplating if he ought to kiss her, or if she’d clout him for trying. She wouldn’t - she would never strike him - but how was he to know that? Or, sometimes, he’d peer into the other room, towards her bed. Briefly. But he was never subtle enough that she could not see.

 _He’s been nothing but courteous and kind, and I’ve been nothing but cruel and stubborn in return._ Rowan knew what he wanted – he wanted _her_. Her friendship, her loyalty, her trust. Her love.

If this was her life from now on, best she try and enjoy it.

"I'm happy." She stabbed him in the rib with her finger, hearing him snort through his nose. "No. Don't frown like that. I'm serious." She held him tightly. "In this moment, right here, now, I've never been happier."

Her heart of stone beat painfully in her chest. Had he been cruel, remiss or selfish, she could have hated him and felt no shame in it. But he wasn’t. Whatever else he might’ve been before, he was not that man now. He was beautiful, kind, loyal and tender. He kept her company, he made her laugh, he refused her nothing, and he treated her with respect, which is more than most of the men she had known ever offered. No one else had ever fought for her so fiercely. No one else had ever put her needs first.

She _was_ happy with him. Somehow, though, that was far worse. She still felt like she was betraying her people, like she was betraying Rhian.

She watched more stars – hundreds, or perhaps thousands, of them – cross the heavens. It sent shivers up her spine. A few minutes later, they came fewer and farther in between. Meteor showers were like sunrises: beautiful but brief.

“The hour is late,” Iorweth said after the final stars were fallen. He tapped her shoulder and she startled. Without even realizing, she’d fallen into a half-sleep. She rubbed the fatigue from her eyes with her palms. “Come, we’d best head back.”

The trip back to Dulcineya was slower, though it passed in seemingly less time. Iorweth was exhausted, his breaths shallower, his strides less sure. He tripped twice over the rocky terrain, but managed to keep steady. Rowan was tired too, but pinched herself so that she wouldn’t nod off.

The Eastern sky was beginning to brighten by the time Iorweth passed beneath the portcullis into the outer ward.

He offered to walk her to her rooms, if only to postpone the inevitable. “It’s so easy to lose one’s way.”

“Certainly. I would hate to become lost.”

They walked close together, hand-in-hand, taking the long way into the Tùr na Gaelaich, through Ailsa’s Garden and passed the library, rookery, Temple and the Wolf’s Wood.

“Thank you for tonight,” Rowan said once they had reached her rooms, a bit sooner than either of them would have liked.

He stooped to kiss her cheek. In the last moment, she turned and he brushed his lips over her mouth instead. It was a light kiss, soft and tender, and brief. But it was followed with a second, as soft as before, but longer. And then a third. He pressed his mouth firmly to hers, sucking lightly on her bottom lip. Her mind spun as she sunk into the kiss, parting her lips and feeling his tongue, warm and wet and honey sweet.

Bells clanged from the Tùr na Grèine, heralding the first rays of sunlight. Dawn had come.

Iorweth reluctantly broke the kiss, pressing his forehead to hers. “I’m sorry . . . ”

She brushed a hair behind his ear. “I’m not.”

A long silence stretched between them. Finally, he said, “I should go.” He ran his thumbs over the curve of her jaw and neck, sending a shiver thrilling down her back. He took a half-step back, heavily, like his legs were made of stone. “Goodnight, _mo bhaetha._ Or what’s left of it, that is.”

“ _Oidche mhath_ ,” Rowan said in the Elder Speech, and she worried her lip, her stomach clenching painfully, as she watched him melt into the retreating shadows like smoke.


End file.
